


In the same dark gardens

by orlena



Category: The Hidden Almanac (Podcast)
Genre: Bunker Shenanigans, Drom's martyrdom timeline, Drunkenness, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon, canon-typical weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orlena/pseuds/orlena
Summary: Drom, in her bunker (feat. a jar of olives and a conversation).





	In the same dark gardens

Pastor Drom (first name not needed, age bracket unnecessary) was, what might be called in less than polite society, totally sloshed. Inebriated. Pickled. Plastered. Soused. _Crapulent_, even. 

She was still giggling to herself quietly, and trying to extricate her foot from the wicker chair currently taking it hostage, when she heard knocks at the door. _The_ door. The door to her secret bunker. The door meant to withstand a guerrilla attack and nuclear winters and possibly even young, hungry interns ready to snack on anything in their path. The door currently shuddering in its frame. 

(Of course, it was Mord. Supernatural strength aside, he knocked like he did everything else-slowly.) 

“Drom,” he intoned. “Let me in, Drom. Intern Steve was concerned about the recent crash, and wanted to ensure you are not currently being attacked by Mime Cultists, or others of a nefarious nature.” Another shudder at the door, which was by now seriously reconsidering its priorities, Drom could tell. 

“Mord, I would’ve been stabbed twenty times by a Mime by the time you finished that sentence.” Ugh, she was starting to rhyme. Bad sign. She wasn’t feeling giggly anymore either, but sounds were getting too big in her mouth as it was. “I’m fine. Just conv-talk-conversating with the chair.” 

“...What.” 

“It’s excellent company-“ 

The door finally gave way, if by giving way, you meant the lock was crushed and the doorknob was jerked clean off. 

“Hey!” Drom tried to sit up. “You’re paying for that!” 

“I’ll write up an expense form.” Mord swept into the room (with the robes he could do little else) and surveyed the damage in distaste. For a being whose face was always covered, he was remarkably expressive. 

“_Mord_, don’t look at me like that! I’m probably going to die soon, you can’t be mad at me.” She finally managed to stumble to her feet. “Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” 

“You are not going to die, Drom. Unless it is via alcohol poisoning. Or getting crushed by the books, cans, and detritus in this room.” He delicately shifted her fresh laundry to the side (she likes housekeeping better when she’s tipsy), until he made a spot large enough on the couch to sit on. She stared at him, agog. 

“...So you _do_ like what I’ve done with the place? Very effective for crushing mine enemies!” She swung the bottle towards him. “Want some?” 

He pointedly ignored her, which was rather easy for a man composed of nothing but shadows, angles, and an oversized beak. Drom shrugged and made her way to the tiny kitchenette. “More for me, then. Wait, do ya want some olives, though? Been craving olives.” 

Silence. Fair enough. Making her way back was more difficult than she anticipated, what with her bottle and her jar, but she managed to sit down again against the couch without spilling anything too much. Her robes needed a wash, anyway. Mord waited patiently throughout. He was watching her, carefully, like she would self-combust at any moment. Usually, she found that funny. Usually. 

“Drom,” he began. Uh oh. 

“Say, Mord, did I ever tell you about my first miracle?” She uncapped the jar, watched the green shapes inside bob and settle. “It was a doozy, knew my love for the written word would get me in trouble someday. And it wasn’t even the erotica!” She shoved a bunch of olives in her mouth, and washed it down with the gin. Refreshing. “These kids-well, they were 16, but you know that teenagers look like babies to me now-well, these teenagers found themselves a hellwolf in the abandoned cemetery just outside our Academy, name’s not important-“ 

“Drom, is this necessary-“ 

“Anyway, they trapped this poor thing, and they were trying to practice-oh well, the ritual escapes me now, but gosh the poor baby was howling like mad. I have no idea how the instructors didn’t notice.” 

“Did you just call a hellish abomination...a baby?” Mord wasn’t relaxing, exactly, but she could feel him, leaning more firmly against the knitted afghan on the back of the couch. Getting comfortable. 

“Animal rights, Mord. Hellwolves have feelings and nerve endings too! Plus, they were really hurting him, and he started making these whimpering, _wet_ sounds, and I-I-“ 

Her voice had gone scratchy. Better drink some more. Mord had fully turned his head towards her now. “Drom,” he said. She breathed in and continued. 

“So I made them stop. The book in my arm wasn’t ideal for it, it was too soft. But the mass was correct, the volume of the words, you know, how that can make up for anything, and it choked them, all that print, it poured out of their throats, and they listened to me then.” Just keep drinking, Drom. It’ll be fine. She almost shoved the olive jar off the edge of the couch, but Mord grabbed it before it could fall, fingers set against the rim, saying nothing. She continued. 

“And it’s not like I sent them to another dimension or anything! They were fine! Mostly fine. Well, you know I’m not very fond of bullies. Especially rich, ignorant, obnoxious bullies who had such _promising_ careers in politics -I’m sure they’re helping out in a lot of soup kitchens now, or saving the local blood bat population or something public. Don’t know what happened to the hellwolf though. Cute baby. Probably developed a taste for asshole flesh. Good for him.” 

Drom, on the other hand, had been sent away. To a different school, where they referred to her as Drom only, and restricted her access to any written word. She was at least quite satisfied with the first change. There was no more talk of _nice young men_, or appropriate universities, or Gods forbid, her emergence into polite society. She knew what she was capable of now. 

And now, her name was only Drom. 

“Drom,” Mord said. Again. “I have heard this story. Several times before.” 

_So why did you stay?_ She wanted to ask, but knew better. Her head was leaning against the couch, cheek almost on the seat. This close, she could smell the wrongness of him. It wasn’t a _bad_ smell. Wrong, sounded bad too, actually. It was mulch, and wet earth, and mown grass and-an animal smell, like warmth. And he was very warm too, warmer than a human would be. But not bad, really. 

“Well, I listen to your hagiographic gardening spiel every other day, Mord, so you’ll live.” She twisted further along the couch, trying to get comfortable. The jar of olives nearly went sailing again. “Say, do you remember how we met?” 

“Indeed, I do. You mistook me for a coat rack.” 

“Weeell, a possessed coatrack, to be precise. And it serves you right for skulking in the shadows like that. Black robes aren’t very eye-catching in pubs, Mord.” 

“I will endeavour to keep that in mind.” 

“Sure you don’t want a new set? Those robes are at least a decade old, and you don’t even need to go rainbow! A nice burgundy maybe, or deep blue? To match your eyes-er.” 

“No, thank you.” Pause. “I will inform you if I develop an interest, of course.” 

“Of course.” 

Silence again. Drom despised this kind of silence. The silence before _What is wrong with you?_ And _Why did you do that?_ The befuddled sort of silence, that didn’t come from her slightly eccentric choice in robes or her miracle work or anything so ordinary. It just came from _her_. She didn’t want to hear that from Mord. 

“Drom,” Mord said. Drom braced herself. “How can I be of assistance?” What. 

“...What.” 

“You are obviously in pain.” 

“Jeez, can’t a girl drink in peace around here-“ 

“Drom,” he said again. And there it is. The thing that makes him so popular with the interns despite the mask and the potential cosmic horror of his existence and his inability to stop talking about his garden for more than five minutes: he notices when something-or someone-is not growing quite right. And he will putter about, and wait, and putter about some more until it is fixed. She really wanted to hate him for that. 

“Go choke on your chokecherries, Mord. I said I’m fine-“ She stopped. Mord was prising her fingers from around the bottle’s neck-it had left deep imprints into her flesh. Her knuckles were white, fingers cold against his, boiling through the gloves. Was this why he always felt cold? Like a person with a fever, everything cool to the touch? Was touching her like touching a corpse? 

She let him take the bottle. 

“I will take that under advisement, thank you. However, at the moment the zucchinis are taking up a significant portion of the Garden’s time. I could provide you with a zucchini-tini if you prefer, if you wish to further inebriate yourself.” 

“Ooh, catty. Jokes on you bud, I know the zucchinis are out of season right now.” That’s better. That’s much better. Still, she could feel the olives settle, stone-like in the pit of her stomach. What else was there? 

Maybe this. “Hey, Mord.” 

“Yes, Drom?” 

“Uhh-thanks.” Oh God, this is awful. And she’s meant to be the one in touch with her emotions here. “Thanks, for-showing me the garden. The first time. When we met, I mean.” Mord’s hand was resting near her head. 

She had seen him lift an entire oak tree, by himself before, for replanting. Maybe with the right incentive, he would just put her out of her misery now. The beak was staring right at her, and she could _feel_ him trying to talk, opening whatever opening there was under there, again, and again. Eventually, he settled on a “You are welcome.” Okay, that can’t be it. “Although,” he continued. There we go. “The garden was not quite so appreciative. The Cantaloupe has still not fully recovered.” There it is. Eh, still pretty mild, all in all. 

She didn’t want this to end. 

“I want to drink that black wine. You know, the one you were talking about,” Drom blurted eventually. She wanted the bottle back in her hands. “Oh! And there’s this electric blue wine, it’s supposed to be very sweet, and when you drink a glass, it makes you feel exactly like you’re at your 70th birthday party and a relative is about to embarrass themselves. Very highly rated, that one.” 

“Temporal instability is no laughing matter, Drom, especially if ingested.” 

“Oh, you’re no fun. C’mon Mord, won’t ya take a trip with me? There’s this-place, this cavern, that contains the bones of this, virgin princess, or priestess or whatever, and her best friends, all 11,000 of them! Great hotspot for hagiographers. Or we could check out the Painted Skulls in Moravia, it’s said they can tell by the rhythm of your heart whether you’ll achieve your dreams in the next ten years. I should see them before I die, don’t ya think?” Her voice was rising with every word, and it was coming faster, all of it, and her heart, for some reason, was pounding. Which was ridiculous. She was a miracle worker, for Madonna’s sake. She almost missed what he said. 

“I need to oversee the garden, Drom. And frankly, you are safest here. In the garden.” 

“Right, right, sure. We could have a camping party then! I could help you water the tomatoes, and feed George Cheetos-“ 

“A most excellent crow-“ 

“Yes, yes, and we can have a bonfire, and the interns can have all the food they want, the little beasts.” Okay. Okay, this was better. 

“How generous.” 

“Sarcasm is not an attractive look on you, Mord. And I am generous, thank you. But yeah, a little party, and some stargazing and some booze, that’s what I want.” She wanted plenty. _I want to watch the interns bustling about and drinking hot cocoa. I want to write at least a dozen more books, have them be an instant hit, and then use them as doorstops, because it’s funny and will annoy everyone I know. I want to feed George Cheetos and watch him sit on your hat. I want to hear you singing in the shower, at least a few more times, until the novelty wears off. You have a good voice._

_ __ _

“I want to protect you all. I don’t want to die.” 

_ __ _

She felt the bile rising in her throat, whether from the confession or the alcohol-who’s to say? Both were nausea-inducing. Mord stopped her before she could get up, however, and placed a hand to her forehead. It felt like it was burning the top layer of skin off, but she also felt her stomach settle, and everything felt cooler, apart from that point of contact. She closed her eyes. 

_ __ _

“You described the rising of a blighted god as ‘pretty nasty’. I do not think it is so easy to kill you.” There was almost no inflection in his voice, but she knew, well enough. Her giggles came out a touch hysterically, but still. 

_ __ _

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Mord. I’ll do my best not to die and get blood all over your begonias.” Pause. “I’ll protect the garden-and the studio. I promise.” 

_ __ _

His hand was still on her hair. Mord always notices when something-or someone-is not growing quite right. “I know, Drom. But be aware, that task is not yours alone.” 

_ __ _

Drom considered this, and stayed exactly where she was, against the couch, next to him. He would stay there for as long as she did, the whole night through, in this stupid secret bunker, and greet her again in the morning. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m starting to get that.” 

_ __ _

In the garden, the Alstroemerias continued to grow. 

_ __ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I adore this podcast, and while I haven’t caught up (so apologies for narrative inconsistencies), I became rather interested in exactly how our favourite Pastor might truly handle the news of her impending demise, Reverend and bunker included. Not sure if I succeeded, but I’m fond of their friendship, and wanted to write a little on that too. 
> 
> A few notes: the wine and ossuaries mentioned here are all real. The blue wine is known as Gik Blue, made with red and white grapes, and mixed with pigments to produce an electric blue colour (time skipping not included). The Moravian Skulls at Křtiny Ossuary and the Church of St Ursula (she of the 11,000 alleged virgins) both also exist, though as far as supernatural events surrounding skulls go, the locals might be of more help.
> 
> Alstroemerias, otherwise known as the Peruvian Lilies, symbolise friendship, because I am a sap. 
> 
> Lastly, the title comes from Yves Bonnefoy. _“We have grown, I know, in the same dark gardens.”_
> 
> My tumblr is [here](https://carthavaru.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat about anything, including podcasts, spooky things and gardening.  
Thanks again for reading!


End file.
